We are brought to near-tears by the tender French reunion of the Arafats:

Mrs Arafat flew in to be at her husband’s bedside on Thursday, and the pair then went on to Paris. Mr Arafat broke the news to Zahwa that they would soon be reunited...

A convert to Islam, Mrs Arafat once complained to an Egyptian newspaper that her husband never gave her any jewels and lived like a bachelor.

“When I complain of being neglected, he offers me souvenirs and symbols of the Palestinian revolution,” she said in a rare interview.

Well, Paris is just the place for the derelict Mr. Arafat to pick up some classy glass for the missus. As the PNA site appears to be defunct, Pave invites you to send your shopping tips to the Fatah, who, we are confident, will cheerily pass them along to the little chairman:

fateh@palnet.com

Earlier this year, French public prosecutors opened a money-laundering inquiry into suspect transfers to her Paris bank accounts of some £6 million.

The family has reportedly been occupying a whole floor at a luxury Parisian hotel. Mrs Arafat is said to get £53,000 a month from the Palestinian Authority.

Mr Arafat is unable to converse with his daughter in French, but can sing the song Frère Jacques.

Barbara Plett of the Beeb tells why the little chairman's underwhelming send-off had her mopping up scalding girlie tears:

But where were the people, I wondered, the mass demonstrations of solidarity, the frantic expressions of concern?

Was this another story we Western journalists were getting wrong, bombarding the world with news of what we think is an historic event, while the locals get on with their lives?

Yet when the helicopter carrying the frail old man rose above his ruined compound, I started to cry... without warning.

In quieter moments since I have asked myself, why the sudden surge of emotion?

Here's a sampling of some of Ms. Plett's quieter moments' reporting:

Despite [Mr. Arafat's] obvious failings - his use of corruption, his ambivalence towards violence, his autocratic way of ruling - no one could accuse him of cowardice.

During those black days in Ramallah, he was a symbol of Palestinian unity, steadfastness, and resistance.

Why the Beeb pays Ms. Plett to be a reporter-on-the-spot when this sort of clichéd puff can be phoned in from the lavatory of the London Press Club is anyone's guess.

But if the Palestinians are lukewarm about Mr. Arafat, Dr. Chirac and the French are not. The whole of France is at the little chairman's disposal to return him to the Palestinians in fine terrorist fettle:

"He's much better, he's really much better, and he's more cheerful," [Palestinian Foreign Minister Nabil] Shaath said.

But then there is this throw-away diagnosis tucked away in another article on Mrs. Arafat's flamboyance:

A senior Palestinian official said yesterday that Mr Arafat's condition was serious, but not immediately life-threatening, although CNN reported that other officials believe that he is suffering from dementia and have concluded his era is over.

Luckily the French have some experience with supporting the mad in government.

Belgian-born Paul Eugène Louis Deschanel was elected the 10th President of the Third Republic on January 17, 1920. He resigned later the same year, September 21, for what is discreetly described as "ill health", by which the onset of dementia is understood. (In one episode, he jumped from a window in the moving presidential coach in his presidential pajamas.) The following year, January 9, 1921, he was elected senator for Eure-et-Dormouse.